


miracles of history

by borisrings



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Emo, M/M, The Goldfinch, The Secret History - Freeform, boreo, gay breakdowns, in antwerp, papenathy, theo and richard meet!!!, ur head will hurt after this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-11-02 03:21:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20604878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borisrings/pseuds/borisrings
Summary: When I saw him; I thought my heart stopped.Francis was in the middle of the road, in the arms of a man dressed in black. Noisy cars and their blinding headlights surrounded them, blurring my vision. He had his knees on the floor, his arms around this guy I had not seen before—he seemed frightened, and his body was animated. The color of his hair was shining under the lights of lampposts and cars; and it was when I met his supplicating glance that I ran towards him, raising my hand in front of the vehicles as I crossed the street.





	miracles of history

**Author's Note:**

> hi! thank you for reading my work. enjoy this long (too long) fic about a crossover i was dying to write about. a huuuuge thank you to my best friend erin who always helps me to translate my stuff. love u.
> 
> for sophy.

The sound of my footsteps crashing into the puddles was the only one that was resonating in the little alley. The pockets of my thick green bottle coat were too small for my frozen hands, and my cheeks were covered in raindrops that I didn't even take time to wipe. My vision was blurry, but because I had no idea where to go, it didn’t matter to me. I turned right down the main street, blowing softly to slow the course of my heart; and I watched the smoke — because the cold — coming out of my mouth, dissipating in the hectic night of Antwerp.

I was trying to find a redhead among the people I was running toward, or I was listening in case I would hear a thud in one of the bars along the main street of the city, or a loud thump of horn. Francis had told me that "_a drink after so many years_" would be a good idea. What had he done to get here and where was his wife? I had no idea. I had arrived at the bar he mentioned over the phone when I had landed a few hours earlier. I arrived late, the taxi driver was rude, my eyes were itchy and the sunset was a bloody, frightening hue that reflected a bright light on my white skin. The bar was small, I didn’t have a hard time recognizing him despite the few years that had separated us. He had remained the same; he had just a few more red hairs falling in front of his eyes, his freckles had faded, and he had a sad smile, and what caught my attention were the short, white scars on his right wrist when he raised his glass the second after he saw me. "Richard! Thank God, you came!”

He was already drunk; his eyes wandered all over my face, and he touched my elbow every time he spoke. Very few people were present apart from us: just a long-haired raven-haired biker who was scrutinizing Francis's patent shoes, a blond couple, and an old gentleman reading an old newspaper, with his mustache sprinkled with butter cake crumbs. It was hot in the bar, and I felt my sweat being absorbed by my woolen sweater that was scratching my back, while looking at Francis whose face made me turn back in time in the rudest way.

He asked me several times if it was actually me. I repeated to him that it was, asking him every time if he was doing fine, and if his wife was well. To each of my questions he laughed: "Stop messing with me Richard," and then constantly asked me why I had agreed to come.

I didn’t know. I could have ignored his call, invented an excuse, said I was sick, or just hung up on him. But I had a headache at the time, then I had suddenly seen his smile and the way he used to stick his tongue between his teeth when he made a mocking remark to me and I had accepted, with a heavy heart.

"I have nightmares." he told me, when he’d finished laughing after I told him that I was engaged to a French girl I met a few months ago in a New York fast food restaurant. He dropped his eyes, then let his finger play with his almost finished glass of whiskey. I scratched the palm of my left hand with my fingernail, looking at my full glass for a few minutes. The waiter at the bar had offered chocolates, scented with orange or raspberry, but we refused; I just contented myself to look at the porcelain bowl filled with sweets that was resting beside us. Me too, I also had nightmares.

I was suddenly taken back to one October night. My sleep had been disturbed by blond hair and the smell of Lucky Strikes. I had seen them — Henry and Bunny — in the old bathtub in the bathroom of the former house of the twins; they had worms on their immaculate white shirts and blue scratches on their lips. I just looked at them, paralyzed. They were lying in red water — blood — dirt was scattered on the floor. The light coming out of the window was white and blinding, and the walls were fuzzy, making the limitations of my dream impossible to impose. Henry's suit was earthy and there was dried blood on his shoulders. Bun was still wearing the jacket he wore that night that was completely torn. His face was bluish and battered and when I was about to turn back to leave this demonic vision, he had opened his mouth. "So, what's up?" he had said, his glasses crooked, with blood in his mouth. Henry smiled mockingly as he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his muddy pocket. He had a hole in his temple, and it was when I saw that I had woken up, out of bed, terrified.

I was about to tell him but I did not have the courage. So I watched him. The waiter was cleaning the counter with a force that made our glasses and Francis' empty cigarette pack shake. The old man turned the pages of his newspaper slowly, and the ice cubes in my glass were slowly melting. Francis spoke again to cut the silence that was becoming heavy, and in an indescribable way he caught my eye at that moment. A handful of sad stars shone in his eyes and it was when he opened his mouth that I understood.

"Camilla is dead. A few days ago. She hung herself in her bathroom. Charles sent me a letter," he said, putting his hand on mine.

I looked at my glass, and grabbed it for a drink; then it was as if I had received a blow to the stomach.

_ Camilla_.

My Camilla; the lightest, the intrepid, the prettiest, the most gifted. My beautiful Camilla with her Olympe eyes, soft skin, pink lips and velvet laughter. Her smooth and sweet sweaters, her shiny smile, the coldness of her eyes that still managed to capsize my heart. Her neck, her beautiful neck, beautiful, decorated with a pendant with an oak leaf — her poor neck that I had restrained myself so many times from caressing. The pain tore my heart and I was not able to move.

"I know,” said Francis, freeing his hand to pass it through his hair.

"Why? Did he say—"

"No. His letter was as cold as Hampden is in Winter.”

I looked at the couple who were holding hands at the table to our right and clenched my teeth together. 

"I'm going to the bathroom."

I shook my head, without even taking the time to look at him. I ran my hand through my short hair and grabbed the bar counter with the other, so as not to wobble from my chair.

_ My beautiful Camilla. _

I realized that it had been a long few minutes since Francis had left and he’d not returned yet. His cigarette was consumed in the ashtray, and I noticed that the rider and the couple were already gone. I got out of my chair, still trembling with the news Francis had told me. I was trying to chase the image of blond hair spinning under the soothing sun of spring out of my mind, while walking dangerously to the bathroom. I knocked softly against the door whilst wanting to call Francis but no sound came out of my mouth; in spite of my light strike, the door opened and I was facing empty toilets. No trace of Francis; and my hair was standing up because of the noisy wind coming out of the open window — which was strong enough to pass through.

* * *

So that was how I ended up looking for Francis in the streets of a city I had not been to before. The air was cold but pleasant, the city was resplendent with its lights illuminating the snow-capped sidewalks like a white and shining sheet like by the mansions in West California; but my mind was so busy that I didn’t take the time to stop to admire it. People grazed by me, roughly, probably surprised to see a stranger, alone, walking so fast without a camera or a suitcase rolling loudly on the sidewalk; I didn’t pay attention. It was by turning to the right after a newspaper kiosk that I heard a horn sound tearing my ears, and I turned my head sharply to the right, the blood pulsing through my head.

When I saw him; I thought my heart stopped.

Francis was in the middle of the road, in the arms of a man dressed in black. Noisy cars and their blinding headlights surrounded them, blurring my vision. He had his knees on the floor, his arms around this guy I had not seen before—he seemed frightened, and his body was animated. The color of his hair was shining under the lights of lampposts and cars; and it was when I met his supplicating glance that I ran towards him, raising my hand in front of the vehicles as I crossed the street.

As I approached, I could see the other man, who was trying to put Francis back on his feet. Even from a distance I guessed he was small. He must have been my age — _ No _older, actually. He had curly hair as black as his dirty coat, on his elbows — gray dust, like on the construction sites I saw in the city this morning — and his cheeks were hollow. In spite of the night, the lights made it possible to distinguish his dark eyes and the huge dark circles which strew underneath. I saw a few metal rings on his right hand — one looked rusty, though — and that was the one that was grabbing Francis' trembling arm.

Like an automaton, I lifted Francis up and helped the man to carry him across the road. The motorists had come out of their cars and screamed at the top of their lungs after Francis, throwing insults that were as useless as each other; I felt my heart beating so hard that my ears buzzed as we reached the nearest sidewalk.

The wind was chattering against our faces; the sky was as dark as the cloak the strange man was wearing. He was lifting Francis up, and the lights around us seemed blurred because of the tears that had accumulated in my eyes due to the icy air.

"Holy shit,” whispered the man, putting Francis on the floor. I frowned: he had an accent but I couldn't put a word on it. He stretched gruntly in front of me, then ran his hands over his coat looking at me with a smirk.

"What... What happened?"

He didn’t answer. It was after several seconds while staring at me that he realized that it was in fact to him that I was talking to, and not Francis, who was laying on the ground and began to sob. I could hear people complaining about all the space we were taking on the sidewalk, but I was so shocked by what had just happened that I was just breathing heavily to calm the beating of my heart that seemed to derail everything in my body.

"He was lying down. On the road. And fuck, _ slava bogu _, I arrived on time. Habit, I guess.”

_ Was he Russian? _ "But how…"

"I was walking, I was going to join Potter and... Ah here they are! Potter! You’re not going to believe me! But I swear it’s true this time!"

I was about to reply, but was cut off by the arrival of another man, looking weary and irritated, followed by an old white-haired dog, which was pulling on its leash to jump on my legs. I felt Francis cling to me to get up, shaking and looking for support. While helping him, I heard the newcomer speaking.

"What is happening ? Who is that?"

His voice was distant and tired. I felt in his tone that this situation was annoying him; and when Francis leaned against the lamppost lining the sidewalk, I could finally look at him.

He had light brown hair that shone; a few locks were scattered on his forehead. Her dark blue scarf was flawlessly dressed, decorating his gray coat, the same color as his eyes behind his ebony-colored glasses. He had a cold, icy, desperate look. His red lips were parted, letting smoke pass, a consequence of his breathing mixing with the cold of winter. He had dark circles under his eyes and was much taller than the other one.

When he looked at me with surprise, I felt my heart clench; as if his own pain had just touched my heart, and I was so stunned by his sad face that I did not hear what he had just told me.

"Who are you?" He repeated, seeing that my mind had gone astray.

"Richard Papen."

He looked at his friend — I guessed — raising his eyebrow, and started kicking his shoulder to leave.

"Popchyk,” he said, pulling on the dog's leash.

"Your friend saved Francis,” I said, raising my voice to interrupt him.

"Francis? Who’s Francis?"

They both turned around, but it was the taller man who had spoken.

I pushed myself to show him Francis who was still leaning against the lamppost. Hearing his name, he straightened up and wiped his nose with his sleeve with a sniffle. He put his hair back in place. A car honked in the distance and the loudspeakers that had been playing Christmas music for over an hour suddenly stopped. Francis put his hands in his pockets.

"Francis Abernathy." he said in a slurred voice.

Even in the night everyone could see his red eyes and his scratched hands that had rubbed against the roadway. His black coat had turned gray, and his navy velvet trousers were torn. I thought back to the old Francis, who I’d seen during my first days at Hampden, and I had a painful heartache that I hid with a nervous smile. _ What happened to us? _

The gray-eyed guy narrowed his eyes before straightening his glasses.

"Francis Abernathy? Have we met before?"

"Perhaps. I'm sorry, I'm too drunk to remember anything."

"I'm Boris. And he is Potter," said the man with the rings as he came forward, patting his friend on the shoulder.

"Theo," he corrected. "Theo Decker. Boris, stop introducing me to people like that."

Boris just laughed softly at him.

I didn’t try to understand. I looked at Francis and approached him; taking advantage of the fact that the two men were distracted by the dog who had begun to bark.

"Francis, for the love of God, what did you have in mind?" I whispered.

"Sorry Richard. I really am. It's all our— My fault.” he stammered, crying again.

"Francis..."

I was cut off by Boris advancing towards us. He had the dog in his arms; its hairs seemed more greyish up close. The wind blew and lifted his curls and I glanced at the passers by who stared at us. I looked at Boris again.

"Come. Potter pays the taxi. We must go now as well. C’mon. I insist."

Theo, behind him, lit a cigarette.

* * *

I watched the city passing by in front of my eyes.

I had settled in the passenger seat despite my instinct to place myself next to Francis; but Boris had assured me that everything would be fine. Boris was possessed by a destabilizing kindness, a person who takes you pleasantly by surprise and who makes everyone smile even when there is no reason to do so. Even as a stranger to me he immediately put me at ease, and despite his eyes as black as a January night in the Vermont countryside, they reassured me instantly. He spoke a lot too, which made me keep my feet on the ground despite the unreal evening that had just unfolded. He loved Theo a lot, it was obvious. From his eyes to his smile, and in a strange way, everything was done in a comfortable and logical way — and I saw the deep look of infinite despair that Francis hurled at me when I discreetly watched them in the wing mirror.

My head was in my hand, and I leaned against the window. The sky was dotted with gray clouds, scarcely distinguishable in the darkness of the celestial ceiling. The taxi cab was damaged, I caught a few crumbs of it falling on my shoulder, the coldness of the window pane was slowly anesthetizing my cheek, and my eyes closed occasionally for a little longer than usual. I was tired.

Francis's sobs resumed in the background, and I saw in the rearview mirror Boris gently patting his thigh to do _ something _to help. Theo, on the other side of Francis, was also looking behind his window, caressing the dog — Popchip or Popchyk, I don’t remember — who was on his knees, the head resting on his paws. I managed to catch Theo’s glance two or three times, and each time, he looked away, annoyed, wanting to look at all the museums that adorned the corners of the streets. I thought our presence - Francis and I - was bothering him. He might have planned to go to the restaurant, to call his mother or girlfriend — I looked at Boris at that thought and then quickly looked away — or go to the Christmas market to listen to the loud-voiced merchants, due to too much mulled wine.

The taxi driver had taken the address of my hotel, and was looking down the road, and from time to time frowned when the sounds of Francis's sobs became a little louder.

"I need a drink." Francis whispered, leaning his head against the headrest, closing his eyes.

"Me too." Boris said rubbing his hands.

"We'll go to the hotel bar." I said, running my hand over my face, bored. I had only one desire and it was to lie down and finally cry alone.

The car turned slowly. I thought about Camilla, and my thoughts were lost as I remembered her vanilla scent and slowly closed my eyes. I suddenly wondered if she had suffered — but I knew that she had. I put my finger on the dust of the door of the taxi while remembering when it floated in the air that day. It was during Greek class, she was sitting to my left, next to Charles. Henry was talking with Julian, Bunny was showing his broken glasses to Francis, and Camilla was drawing a Greek letter on her thumb. The sun was lighting up her face and she smiled tenderly at me when she caught my eye. She had shown me her thumb, laughing like a child, and then slowly turned to Charles. She was so beautiful that I remembered being terrified. I got out of my thoughts when Francis made a thud as he tapped on his thighs.

"Stop the car," Francis said suddenly, getting up.

Theo turned quickly to him. Nobody answered.

"I said. Stop that fucking car. There is something wrong."

After meeting Theo's stunned look, I stepped out of my trance and hastened to signal to the driver. I glanced in the rearview mirror and I could see Francis tremble as he gripped Boris's arm.

"Hurry. Quick,” I said eagerly.

"Shit._ Dobryy bog _,” whispered Boris. I refused to look again.

The driver grumbled something before braking dangerously to stop at the corner of the street. The vehicle had only just parked when Boris brought Francis outside; he vomited suddenly, all over the sidewalk.

"Fuck.” Boris breathed.

I got out of the car with difficulty after fighting with my seatbelt, shaking. Theo joined me, cautiously, the dog trotting behind him. He looked tired and I suddenly felt a strange compassion for him when I met his sad gaze behind his glasses.

Francis rose abruptly towards us, tears streaming down his cheeks, his hands trembling.

"I killed someone," Francis whispered, looking down at the floor after a few raucous breaths.

"Francis—" I cut him off, without thinking.

I watched him, terrified by what he had just said. I looked with caution at Boris and Theo who did not make a single gesture. The wind was blowing just as hard, and I felt the tip of my nose freezing slowly. The taxi engine resonated in the night, in tune with the sounds of Antwerp’s cars decorating the streets. Francis's gaze pierced through me, and in his eyes I saw that night again. I saw the forest, the ferns that were clutching to our legs, the moon that was dazzling our pale and sick faces, and the smell of moisture and terror that was coming from underground.

After a long deafening silence and some sobs from Francis, Theo finally opened his mouth.

"Me too."

He was looking at the road, as if he was trying to see something, whilst squeezing the dog's leash in his hand. When he looked at us again, his eyes were filled with tears; but they disappeared the minute he blinked.

* * *

Back in the car, the drive was quiet. This time, I had settled in the back. Francis was sleeping on my shoulder; smelling of alcohol and vomit, cigarettes and mourning. Boris was tapping away at his phone; I could see a few words in Ukrainian - or Russian I didn’t know too much at that time — an exchange with someone who had a name beginning with an M. He had realized that I was watching him and he glanced at me mischievously. 

"I'm bored," I said — in my defense — and he just laughed with a shake of his head after whispering something inaudible.

Theo was seated in the front and had been talking to the driver for a few minutes. They were almost whispering but I could hear the words _ "long night", "troubled” _ and _ "pure chance.” _ He was stroking the dog that was on his knees, as he did earlier. When he was finished talking, he put his elbow on the edge of the door and looked through the window. I could see from where I was sitting the reflection of his pale face in the glass. His look was terrifying, and without knowing why, I saw a fear that I had not seen before - a fear of life but also of death, a fear that paralyzes the heart. Turning to talk to the driver again, I saw a bright purple spot in the hollow of his neck.

When the taxi stopped near my hotel, it was raining.

I woke Francis up, shaking him gently; he stretched, grumbled and followed me out of the taxi. I handed the driver a meager dollar — what _ was _ the currency here? — but I scarcely had time to approach his door, I saw Theo tidy his leather wallet, looking at me with a distant expression. I nodded to thank him silently and he returned a polite smile as he closed the pocket of his black, shiny suit.

The neon fuchsia letters that stood tall above the building which bore the name of my hotel suddenly made me ashamed. It was on a big street wrapped in yellow and white lights shining above each crowded pedestrian crossing. I jumped when I felt Boris tapping my back. I gave him a surprised look. He smiled — again.

"What? I said I needed a drink.” 

I barely had time to answer before he grabbed Francis's arm and pulled him slowly and gently towards the entrance of the hotel while holding the dog’s leash, and I watched their two silhouettes gilded by the glimmers of the night, like two strange, golden ghosts. 

And then, from behind me, I heard Theo lighting his second cigarette of the night.

* * *

I didn’t know what I was supposed to do: talk to him? Apologize? Offer him a drink? I just contented myself to look at him like an idiot, and he smiled when he noticed my embarrassment.

"Hi," I said, eyes on the floor.

"Do you want a cigarette?"

"No, thank you."

"Fine."

He walked to the entrance of the hotel and just leaned against the brick-colored stone wall, his fingers playing with his lighter. I joined him, walking slowly, letting the soles of my shoes scratch on the uneven sidewalk. I leaned next to him - not too close, not too far - and looked at him out of the corner of my eye.

"What's the deal with Francis?"

"I have a fiancée." I said, looking at him insistently, with annoyance and embarrassment, without really thinking about it.

"Me too."

I looked at him strangely. "Since when?"

"A couple of months ago."

"What's her name?"

"Kistey."

"It's a pretty name." _ Why did I say that? _ It was stupid and I felt embarrassed when he chuckled, and I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not. I didn’t have time to think about it because I saw him open his lips to answer.

"Yes, she's nice to me."

"Are you getting married soon?"

"I don’t think so," he replied, coldly.

Silence. The chestnut vendor in front of us suddenly became very interesting; I watched him heat them and toast gently in his pan. The smell tickled my nose and reminded me that I’d had nothing to eat during the entire evening. He had traces of soot on his cheek; I thought nostalgically of the small mark on Camilla's dimple when she tried to light Henry's fireplace one November evening. I remembered that night as if it had happened the day before. Bunny was talking about his urge to travel, it was the first time I'd seen Henry laugh — out loud, a real shimmering laugh capable to twist a stomach — Francis was playing with matches and Charles' hand was resting on Camilla’s knee.

Theo pulled me out of my thoughts by cutting the silence with a hesitant voice.

"I wanted to ask, is Francis okay?"

I scratched my neck. "He has some problems. In his head, sometimes."

He nodded slowly. "Due to what?"

I took a long time to answer. I thought back to his letter that he sent me almost two years ago now. I thought back to that night, in the hospital, to the feeling of his warm hand in mine and his tearful gaze. I shivered as I thought about the scratches on his wrist. 

"Loss, I guess."

Theo snorted. "Loss?"

"Perhaps."

"He wanted a car to run him over."

"I know," I said in a deep voice, as if I wanted to erase his sentence that had just echoed in my mind. “I know.”

He sighed, scratching his eyes as he passed his hand under his glasses, and breathed loudly as if he needed help to speak. I became distracted - voluntarily - when I heard a little boy laugh, passing in front of us with his mother, who ruffled his hair and smiled. Theo's voice brought me back to earth.

"One person once told me that anything you manage to save from history is a miracle. I had a thought that it was true only for paintings, engravings, or even the few white marble sculptures that are in museums. But I think it's more than that."

I looked at him— he gently caressed his lips as if he was trying to find a forgotten memory. He looked at me with a sad smile.

I thought back to Camilla's skirt fluttering in the air, laughter shared in Hampden University's park, Henry's cigarettes, Charles's tired sighs, and Bunny's alcoholic breath at warm and quiet dinners. But also the useless glasses resting on Francis's turned-up nose, his red locks of hair scattered against his forehead, his lips moving from time to time reading his textbook, the flowers surrounding his hand laying in the grass from the twins’s colorful garden. These precious memories seemed to be part of my heart, filling and soothing me - despite the recurring thought of the color of Bunny's jacket and Henry's eyes that night. I knew that these memories, as beautiful as they were terrifying, would never die. I will have the ghostly scent of the perfumes adorning Charles’s washbasin, and the sweet and angelic voice of Camilla forever in my mind.

"Who said that?"

"My mother."

I watched him again. He looked at the moon shining in the sky for a few seconds, sighing softly, as if he was used to observing it during cold and melancholy nights. He turned to me, his eyes glassy with tears.

The silence fell; and it was the first comfortable one of the entire evening.

* * *

When Boris and Francis came back with the dog, Theo’s golden watch was showing past midnight. Francis was staggering, and had to cling to me again to stop falling. He gave me a sudden embrace, and I looked at Boris; I thought I saw him drying a tear in the corner of his eye, but my gaze fell down when Francis muttered something to me.

_ "Richaaaard." _

"Francis, we should go to bed."

"Hmm."

I was trying to free myself from Francis, impatient, to try and say a proper goodbye to Boris and Theo; he finally managed to stand up, despite the trembling legs.

"Why did you make him drink? Honestly." said Theo, looking at Boris amused.

"He wanted it. And you never say _ no _ to a free glass of vodka. You know it well. Huh? You know it."

"Shut up."

They laughed softly, then the silence returned.

"Well..." I whispered, not knowing how to cut the silence.

"We're leaving," Theo interrupted me.

I nodded, surprised by my own embarrassment and his eagerness to leave. Boris went off to call a cab, and I heard Francis join him, dragging his feet. I looked at him, my eyes were attacked by the breeze, my heart hurting more than it should.

"You should stay with him. A little bit, before you leave.” Theo said to me suddenly.

I turned to him; he was looking at Boris, absent-minded, with the same tears in his eyes that hadn’t dissipated yet.

"Yes. I thought that too.”

_ "It’s important." _

There was an insistence in his voice, a firm intonation that made me understand that it was a matter of life and death.

"I know." I said with the same tone.

He looked at the moon again. I heard Boris and Francis laugh, and I caught myself smiling softly.

"Life is absurd, sometimes,” he whispered.

"It’s true. It's terrifying.”

"Everything is terrifying," he said hurriedly.

The lights of the city created a golden reflection in his glasses. His face was perfect in the night, and his hair gently lifted under the draft.

I looked at Francis before answering. "Yes, I think so too."

We waited a few moments before joining Boris and Francis on the sidewalk in front of the taxi that had just arrived. Theo helped Boris and Popchyk — Now I do remember the name — settling in the back before turning to Francis who was waving at his new friend with a stupid smile.

"Goodbye, Francis. It was a pleasure." said Theo, uncomfortable.

"Likewise."

Francis gave him a brief smile before turning to walk to the hotel.

"Richard," Theo murmured, smiling at me briefly.

"Theo."

He was about to close the door but I briskly grabbed his elbow, a little too abruptly, but just enough to stop his movement. He looked at me with a worried and disturbed look, lips parted. I idiotically noticed that his scarf had moved, his hair had become disheveled and I suddenly heard cars honking behind us.

"Thank you."

He smiled, embarrassed. "You're welcome."

"Be careful."

"Yes."

"Thanks again. I'm afraid that he—"

"I know. Everything will be alright."

"I think—"

"I know."

I knew he did.

Silence. The driver groaned and Theo patted my hand. The contact was cold, yet he rekindled the heat in my heart that I needed.

"Good luck,” I whispered, releasing my grip gently.

"Thank you. Good luck to you too."

We looked at each other for a few moments. I was about to open my mouth again but he slammed the door, looking sorry but with a touch of compassion that turned my heart.

I watched him, stunned, whilst the taxi started; and I only stopped watching the vehicle when it turned at the crossroad, to disappear from my field of vision, in the dense city of ephemeral encounters.

* * *

Putting Francis to bed remained to be a hard task, considering that he had drank like a fish in an unimaginable way. He smelled terribly bad, and it was a torture to make him take a shower. The hotel's floral wallpaper was hideous, the lamps was barely lighting up, and the only bed in the room was hard as a rock. I had forgotten too quickly that this was the room reserved for my name and that having a drunken Francis on my hands was not part of the reservation. I proposed to him to sleep in the bed, reluctantly, whilst making my own with random dusty blankets found in the wardrobe.

Francis wasn’t saying a word; and neither was I. We were just contenting ourselves to fix the shabby ceiling, and listen to the restless and deafening sounds of the night, after opening the window, because of the smell of the room. I played with my hands, silently, feeling my head aching under the red and green khaki rapper carpet, thinking of Theo's words earlier.

He broke the silence.

"Boris is nice." he whispered.

"Did you talk a lot?"

"Yes. He cried. I think he believes I didn’t see him but I saw tears on his fingers when he scratched his eye.”

I thought back to Boris's gesture.

"Oh?"

"Yes."

I remained silent, then I heard Francis stir in the bed.

"He likes Theo a lot."

"It's true, they look very close."

"They are."

"They seem to have been friends for a long time."

"Boris and I are alike, I think. We ordered the same thing at the bar. Then..."

"Theo also has a fiancée, like me. It's funny.” I cut him off, thinking back to how much Theo reminded me of a familiar and strange feeling, despite my constant discomfort with him.

Francis waited a moment before answering. A loud laugh was heard from the street. Steps in the hallway.

"You're really a dick, Richard."

"What?"

"Goodnight."

With these words, he fell asleep, leaving me in intense confusion. I tried to cry, but I couldn’t; then I heard people talking through the walls from the room next to ours. It only lasted a few minutes before I fell asleep through their whispers.

* * *

I woke up with a stomach ache and realized, without surprise, that I had a monstrous hunger. I grunted as I got up, then glanced at the bedside table next to the bed Francis was snoring on — 5am.

I didn’t get myself changed: I was wearing an old t-shirt I had worn under my sweater the day before, and the same pants. I clumsily managed to tie the laces of my shoes, taking care to not wake Francis up. The sound of the air conditioning was the only sound in the room. I realized that the window had been closed and I assumed that Francis must have felt cold during the night. 

I caught myself staring at it a bit too long, my eyes darkened by the obscurity of the room; snowflakes clinging to the tiles, then melting gently, scattering on the glass. I then grabbed the card next to the alarm clock and walked out of the bedroom, not taking the time to take a jacket or re-comb my hair.

It was a terrible mistake because the cold of the corridor attacked me in a brutal and unexpected way; I tried to rub my arms in order to warm myself up, although it was totally useless. I went down the carpeted staircase, sticking my shoulder against the wall so as not to fall: there was no switch, and I didn’t see any of the steps that ran under my feet, bruised by my laces that I had made to go fast and too tight.

Arriving on the ground floor, I searched for a vending machine, wandering in the dark and shabby corridors of the hotel. They were illuminated by faint lanterns that were turned off automatically for a few minutes, before plunging the aisles back into complete darkness. I was scared: the noises suddenly arose, making my heart beat faster. The ones coming from the walls, the thumping snaps from the pipes beneath my feet or the ones coming from above me, meaning that someone had got up from their bed, and circled their room, in search of the sleep that had gone in the acidity of the night.

My neck was covered with goosebumps and a cold shiver ran down my lower back when I saw a black shadow at the end of the corridor. In an almost stupid way I began to walk towards it, hoping maybe I could be informed about any disponible food that was in that damn hotel. Whilst walking, I found a certain familiarity. It was with a nameless stupor that I realized, arriving near the end of the corridor, that I was in a hallway of the University of Hampden, more precisely the one that led to the Greek class: the walls were creamy and the black and white tiles made noise under the heels of my shoes. And my dread grew when I saw Camilla, leaning against the wall. She had a low bun, her eyelashes were lying under a touch of mascara and her lips were drawn by a fine smile.

"Well? What are you doing? We're going to be late.” she said, taking my hand.

She pushed open the door in front of us, and I recognized the Greek room just by feeling the smell of clean and Julian’s chalks - from the blackboard that was used only very rarely - attacking my nose brutally. I let out a little scream of surprise when I saw Henry playing chess with Bunny, smiling. There was a lit cigarette in the ashtray in glass next to Henry's elbow, whose glasses were illuminated by the flashing light from the large window in front of the round table, which was in the middle of the room.

"Sit down." Camilla ordered me, showing me a wooden chair — it was Francis's, I remembered it — and I sat down.

There was a long silence, but Henry turned to me; putting his glasses back in place.

"It's always a pleasure, Richard."

I looked at him, stunned. "What are you doing?"

"We’re playing, old chap.” Bunny replied as he put his queen on the board game.

Henry smiled before doing the same. "Checkmate."

"Whore! Every fucking time, Henry! Teach me for God’s sake!"

"It's not that hard."

I glanced at Camilla; She smiled at me as she fiddled with her earring. It is with horror that I saw a purple trace around her neck. I was about to open my mouth, but Henry was faster.

"You know Richard, life is a game." He took the pawns and put them back in place, and started playing alone, looking at me. "You can make all the right choices," he moved a pawn to the right and then continued: "—or the bad ones." then he dropped it to the ground, which caused a thud. "But we must not have regrets."

I watched him furiously. "Do not you regret all that? At all?"

He smiled sadly at me, taking the pawn that Bunny had picked up on the clean floor. The window was open but no breeze came out; Henry's hair did not move as it used to do. Bunny sniffed from time to time, and Camilla was looking at me, her head in her hand, her elbow wrapped in a sky blue waistcoat resting on the table. She had a lock of hair that caressed her ear; she was beautiful.

"Not really, no."

"You would not have done things differently?"

He looked at Bunny out of the corner of his eye. "Perhaps."

Then he replied immediately, feeling the look from Bunny weighed on him, sitting up in his chair. "But I will not have changed much. It would have been useless."

"Why did you do it?"

It came out of my mouth without a thought, a kind of angry response to the play I was watching that was playing in front of my lost eyes. I didn’t look away, and I felt my hand start to shake under the table. Camilla saw it — I was expecting her to put her own on top of it, but when I didn't feel any warmth and soft touch against my cold skin, my heart sank.

"Because I was scared."

"No. That's not true. Don’t you dare say that, Henry."

"You know it is, because you feel it too."

A shiver ran through my spine thinking of his words. Fear; synonymous of white gravestones adorning cemeteries, side looks in restaurants, TV at volume louder than usual with cold and sad faces on screen — fear of contact, noises of mouth, fear of nudity, crushed cigarettes, fists against cheeks, and, scared of red hair mingling with the white sheets of a college room.

"I don’t want to die."

"Stop being scared,” Henry replied, stroking the right arm of his glasses. He looked at me with such ferocity that this time, my whole body began to shake.

"I…"

"The memories that you managed to save from the... Let's say, _ terror _of your past must serve you for something. I didn’t succeed in saving them. Nobody here in this room did — except you."

"Charles… Francis..."

"We all know what Charles is taking refuge in. When fear crushes his back."

I was waiting for Henry to say something about Francis, but he didn’t. And I realized it was because I already knew well enough; Francis was _ already _ dead in a way. I felt my heart clenching, cigarette smoke passed in front of his face, and I spoke again.

"What am _I _taking refuge in, then?"

"I am your friend Richard, not your conscience."

He smiled as he put his glasses back on his nose.

"You're dead..." I said with a restless look.

"So what?"

"I don’t understand."

"You understand more than you want to think. We know it well enough. You and me. I admire you for that.”

"It's absurd."

"No. In any case, Richard, we know very well that we could only have ended up this way. With or without Hampden. Our paths would have been crossed in one way or another. And our deads too — Without being able to do anything about it. You can’t do anything about it. Nothing will change what you are, what you want and what you become. _ That _is what absurd means." He looked at the cigarette in the ashtray, then looked back at me. "You will think about this, will you? It's time to leave."

Camilla touched my elbow, smiling. "Follow me."

"See you later, mate." Bunny shouted at me when I got up, distraught, following Camilla into the room.

I turned to say something, maybe a weak and useless _ "sorry" _ to Bunny but nothing came out of my mouth. I just stared at the cigarette in the ashtray whose smoke was mixed with the golden dust of the room. Then, before I left that dream worthy of a mirage, I heard the noise of Henry's cigarette pack being violently placed on the table and the husky voice of Bunny.

"Come on, one last time! I'm going to fucking trash you this time, Henry. I swear to God."

The cigarette fell into the ashtray, consumed to the root.

* * *

I woke up with a start, believing for a few seconds that I was dead.

My legs were tangled in the dirty covers that I had mechanically superimposed to have a decent quilt, and then my eyes went to the alarm clock next to me. 5am. The window was open. It was snowing.

I layed down in my _ homemade _bed, my hands running over my face, trying to wipe the heavy sweat from my nose. Then I got up slowly, listening to the quiet snoring of Francis who was sleeping soundly. I closed the window, went to the bed and sat on the edge of it. He was on his side, his back in front of me, and his shoulder was gently rising with the rhythm of his breathing.

"Francis. Hey, Francis!" I whispered, shaking him gently.

Francis moved a little, then finally turned completely, his hair on his forehead, his crumpled shirt collar from the night before, and his tired eyes peered into the darkness.

"What's the matter? Is the hotel burning?" he said, with a tired voice.

"What? No, no."

"So what is it? What time is it?"

"Five A.M—" He swore, letting his head fall suddenly under the pillow, but I resumed. "—Listen. I saw them."

Francis looked at me, raising his eyebrows. "What?"

"They came back. Camilla was there."

I looked Francis in the eyes, he finally let out a sigh by passing his hands over his face and keeping them on his mouth.

"They’re so fucking annoying. Can they please leave us alone for a _ fucking _ second or what?” I looked at him, stunned by his answer. He shrugged and repositioned himself to go back to sleep. "Go to bed Richard."

I then looked at my _ "bed" _ on the floor, the sheets scattered everywhere, my shoes upside down, my pillow (which was actually my cold and uncomfortable coat) and emitted a long sigh. There were only a few hours of night left - Sleeping on the floor would not be an absolute disaster, but in a senseless way, I laid down on the bed next to Francis, who made a noise of surprise.

"What are you doing?"

"C’mon Francis. It’s only me."

"I know, idiot."

Silence. My heart was pounding and I felt Francis's leg against mine, trembling. I then put my hand on his shoulder. "Make space for me."

He complied, silent, surely as shocked as I by my thoughtless gesture. Then he grabbed my hand on his shoulder and pulled it on his side, so that I found myself completely stuck to him — then put it on his chest.

I could hear snowflakes tapping gently against the window, and I watched my hazel hair mixed with Francis' flamboyant red, creating a warm palette of autumn. When I finally closed my eyes, I heard a low murmur from Francis, and felt my hand rise slowly, to the rhythm of his words, against his chest.

"Thank you."

And then I fell asleep; whilst feeling Henry's ghostly look on me from the corner of the room.

* * *

_ The absurd does not liberate; it binds. _

**_— _Albert Camus**


End file.
